The Courting of Tamriel's Grumpiest Thief
by Clairfir
Summary: The Dragonborn has a crush on Mercer. It doesn't go well. Originally written for the Skyrim kink meme but never completed.


A/N: This was written for the Skyrim kink meme, but sadly never finished. Since it happens on the same timeline as my main story, I figured it would be fun to put it up. Lots of light hearted silliness.

* * *

"Mercer, this was the one I was talking about; our new recruit." Cain was too busy eyeing the scenery of the Cistern, observing some of the Guild members at a distance to make the cue for his introduction. He heard the shorter of the two men before him scoff, the contempt in his voice thicker than even the most arrogant of Altmer Cain had ever had the displeasure of meeting.

"This better not be another waste of the guild's resources, Brynjolf." _How rude! I'll show you waste of resources!_ Clearly the Riften Thieves Guild made sure that new recruits were well invested before introducing them to their less-than-pleasant Guildmaster. "Before we continue," Mercer turned, now addressing the Imperial directly, "I want to make one thing perfectly clear," the lighting of the Cistern made his eyes appear vaguely green.

_Oh._

Cain could see the Breton's lips moving, but Mercer may as well be talking about his vacation to Secunda, for all was getting through. Mind, the Dragonborn was paying plenty of _attention_ to the Guildmaster, his lips, almost perpetually pulled into a scowl, forming around words and syllables as the gravelly undertones of his voice left a pleasant hum, reverberating in Cain's ears.

The Imperial had always considered himself an equal-opportunity lover, and as such had never resigned himself to a particular type. Yet, every word out of Frey's mouth (what's he talking about again?) and every second gazing at his chiselled (chiselled? It was practically _beaten_) face made Cain concede that he hadn't been this taken with someone since the teeny-tiny Breton girl with the fondness of smut he had enjoyed eons ago. _Bretons, then,_ he concluded.

"Do I make myself clear?" Mercer's words were clear with the dagger of a threat. A threat that the Dragonborn probably would have noticed if he weren't busy undressing the Guildmaster with his eyes.

Cain vaguely heard Brynjolf from his right, clearing his throat as if to gather some attention from the Imperial. _Crap, they've stopped talking and now they're looking at me. What were they even talking about? Speak, man, speak!_

"Understood," Cain flashed a smile bright enough to melt the heart of even the most contemptuous Daedric prince, extending his hand to shake the older thief's own. If there was only one thing Cain could take pride in, it was being charming. Really, most of his activities which could be considered _thieving_ were really more _coercing_ people into handing over their belongings by any means necessary. In his defence, nobody was ever _dissatisfied_ after the event, but that could be partially attributed to a repertoire of Illusion spells which he had spent many a year perfecting. (Perfecting was being incredibly generous; the spells were near useless on anybody reasonably strong-willed unless they already really, really liked him.)

Mercer's eyes narrowed as he begrudgingly took the Dragonborn's hand. The Imperial's smile did not falter as Frey near-crushed his fingers together in an iron grip. Their eyes were locked in what Cain could only assume was the Breton's time honoured intimidation method. Admittedly, the Dragonborn was practically one smoulder away from taking off all his clothes and offering himself as entrée, main and dessert (and what a fantastic meal it would be!) to the rakish thief, but nobody needed to know _that_.

* * *

"Good luck in Goldenglow, lad. Don't disappoint us."

"Hang on, Brynjolf, I have one more thing I wanted to ask," Cain pulled the Nord into the far end of the Cistern, ensuring that they weren't within earshot of any curmudgeonly thieves and other undesirables. "What does Mercer, you know, _like_?"

The red-haired man blinked. "Sorry lad, I don't think I follow,"

"I mean, what kinds of things does he like? The Rift during autumn? Tomb crawling? Antique swords? Exotic food? Magic tricks? Dashing blue eyed multilingual brunets?" The Imperial's tone was so insistent that his line of questioning could have been for a plot for murder as much as large-scale courtship.

"This is probably not a good idea, lad."

"Have I mentioned that I can write love poems in Daedric script?"

Brynjolf allowed himself a silent chuckle before leading the shorter man to the entrance of the Flagon. "Maybe you can ask some of the other Guild members after you come back from Goldenglow."

Well that settled it. How difficult could burning a beehive and raiding an estate be, anyway?

* * *

The Goldenglow operation resolved without a hitch (well, except for that one arrow that grazed our hero's side, but Cain resolved to chat up the priestess at the Temple of Mara to get that sorted out in due time,) and the residents of the Thieves Guild were corralled into the Flagon to enjoy celebratory drinks by the spirited Imperial.

Everyone except Mercer.

Cain grumbled to himself, the mead (Black-Briar mead really was swill) and Mercer's absence only serving to make him more irritable. What kind of person turns down drinks with the company that they themselves are leading? Apparently Mister Grumpypants didn't think teamwork and leadership were valuable characteristics in running a Guild. You know, a Guild with _members_.

"What a pain in the ass," he mumbled, pouting into his tankard.

"You know," Cain looked up, turning his attention to Vex. She looked over as if pining over a prickly old thief was _funny_, of all things. "Mercer might seem difficult, but he actually has a soft spot for romance."

_… What._

In his moody, lovestruck, semi-inebriated state, the Dragonborn's ability to sense blatant lies had clearly dissipated with his common sense, and his face _lit_ up as he rose from his seat. The thieves watched as the Imperial, refilled tankard in hand, made a beeline for the Cistern. Apparently nobody thought saving our hero from himself was as entertaining as watching the spectacle which would soon unfold.

Mercer looked up from his desk, his semi-permanent scowl deepening as he saw the beaming, dark haired thief padding towards him. He was preparing one of his standard chides ("Don't you have better things to do than disturb me?), but Cain simply set down the tankard on the Guildmaster's desk and disappeared out the cemetery entrance of the Cistern. Nobody was quite sure what was going to happen - the rest of the Guild had, of course, made their way back to the Cistern behind our hero so not to miss the upcoming carnage. Frey, meanwhile, simply went back to rifling through his correspondence, occasionally taking sips from the cup left on his desk.

Five, maybe ten minutes later, Cain emerged from the surface, clearly holding something behind his back and out of sight of the Breton of his affections. Everyone else, having a theatre view, could see what exactly was on his person and exercised a great deal of self control to not just let out a crack of laughter right then and there. Well out of earshot, Vex chuckled and whispered to Delvin, "I can't believe he actually took me seriously."

This time, Mercer didn't even bother looking up from his correspondence as the Imperial approached, steeling himself for whatever nonsense the younger thief had in mind.

"Guildmaster," our hero stood opposite the object of his affections, all smiles, as he leant in closer. "How do you feel about... nightshade?" Mercer blinked, his expression unchanging as he waited for the Imperial to continue. Again, it wasn't clear if the plucky thief wanted to _court_ or _kill_ him, and really, Frey wasn't particularly keen on either option. (Not to mention, Cain was failing miserably at both.) "I myself have always held a quiet appreciation for the flowers," the Dragonborn continued, bringing out the object hidden from the older thief's view until now and presenting it to him.

It was... a bouquet. Blue and purple mountain flowers, some longer blades of spiky grass, and, naturally, several stems of nightshade, bright purple and in full bloom. In any other situation, our hero would have received accolades on his flower arranging prowess, (and, in Cain's mind, many a night of sweet, sweet loving with his favourite Guildmaster,) but as it stood, he was practically one stupid line away from being punched out cold.

"Beautiful and deadly.., like you."

Sapphire let out an involuntary cackle and doubled over in laughter.


End file.
